Dragon And Soldier

by Timothy Zahn

"Wow!" the kid beside Jack said, his eyes wide.

  Jack focused on him. "You like my dragon?" he asked. The words came out with difficulty, his voice sounding in his ears like it was coming from deep inside a well.

  "It's cool," the kid said. "I've never seen a tattoo that big before."

  For a long heartbeat Jack just stared at him. And then, as abruptly as it had crumbled to dust, the whole thing uncrum-bled itself back together again.

  He'd gotten used to Draycos riding his skin, all right. So used to it that he'd also forgotten what the K'da looked like stretched out back there. "Biggest one in the Orion Arm," he bragged. His voice sounded just fine now. "At least, that's what the guy said."

  The kid shook his head in wonder, leaning forward for a better look. "How long did it take him to do it?" he asked.

  "Couple of months," Jack improvised, hoping that wasn't a ridiculous number. He didn't have the faintest idea how long it took to put on a tattoo. "He did part of it every day until it was done."

  The kid shook his head again. "Cool."

  Jack frowned at him. The kid was a good head shorter than he was, with a wide, round face and ears that stuck out to the sides. Like a hot-air balloon with twin air scoops attached, he decided. "I'm Jack Montana," he introduced himself.

  "Rogan Mbusu," the other said.

  "Uh-huh," Jack said. "How old are you, Rogan?"

  The kid drew back a little. "I'm fourteen," he said, a little defiantly. "I'll be fifteen on my next birthday."

  "Yeah, that's the way birthdays usually work," Jack said, frowning. No way the kid was fourteen. Even twelve would be pushing it. "Fourteen, huh?"

  Rogan's eyes drifted away. "Sure," he said. Turning back to his own section of the bench, he resumed changing into his new uniform.

  Jack looked back around the room. A few of the boys were still staring at him, but most had had their fill of the show and were going about their business again. Turning his back to them, Jack did likewise.

  A few minutes later he was finished. Folding his civilian clothing into the footlocker, he pulled the "dog-collar" wristband from its pouch inside the lid and closed it, making sure all the locks were fastened. He slid the wristband around his right wrist and headed toward the line of uniformed kids at the wide exit door. The footlocker, following the signal from his wristband, rolled along at his side like an obedient puppy.

  On the far side of the exit door was another supply counter. There Jack picked up a combat vest with a dozen pockets, a condensation canteen, a shirt nameplate, and the results of the medical scan they'd done on him at the other end of the line.

  Last of all, he was issued his weapons.

  "Moray pistol and Gompers flash rifle," the supply man identified the handgun and snub-nosed rifle as he slid them across the counter. His voice had the bored tone of someone who's been saying the same thing once a minute since breakfast. "Holster's in the side trouser pocket—pick either left- or right-handed. Rifle goes over the shoulder, barrel down, grip back."

  "Uh—" Jack frowned at the guns as he picked them up. They were a lot heavier than he'd expected. "Grip how?"

  "Come on, come on, move along," the man snapped, already pushing the next recruit's weapons across the counter.

  Fumbling the guns into an awkward grip, Jack moved away. At the end of the room ahead was one final door, with glimpses of daylight shining through each time one of the new recruits went out. He looped the rifle sling over one shoulder, just to get it out of the way, and slid his hand into his right-hand pocket. The man had said there was a holster somewhere in there?

  "It goes like this," a girl's voice said from behind him. Jack turned, to see the dark-eyed girl who'd had the brief run-in earlier with Jommy Randolph. "What?" he asked.

  "I said it goes like this," she repeated. She patted her right hip, where her Moray was already nestled in its holster. "You pull the tab and it folds out into shape."

  "Oh." Jack located the tab and pulled. Sure enough, the holster folded out. "Right. Thanks."

  "The rifle goes like this," she added, looping the sling over her right shoulder with the gun pointed down and the top of the barrel facing forward. "This way you can just grab the grip and swing it up on its strap into firing position." She demonstrated. "See?"

  "Yeah," Jack said, tucking his Moray away and redoing the rifle. Gingerly, he swung it up. "Yeah, I see."

  "Don't worry, it won't bite," she assured him, her face somewhere between contempt and amusement. "See the red spirals along the barrels? These are candy canes."

  "They're what?"

  "Candy canes. Non-functional guns."

  Jack frowned down at his rifle. "What are they giving us non-functional guns for?"

  She shrugged. "Get us used to carrying the weight, I suppose."

  "But why not use real ones?" Jack persisted. "They're going to give us those before we go into the field anyway, aren't they?"

  She snorted. "If you want to get on a crowded transport with a hundred farm boys like you who've never seen a gun before and who have live ammo, go ahead. Me, I'll stick with Santa's elves and their candy canes."

  "I have too seen guns before," Jack insisted irritably. This girl had a genuine knack for rubbing people the wrong way. "Just not this particular type."

  "Sure," she said. "Just keep 'em pointed at the ground, okay?" She nodded toward his left hand. "You need help with that, too?"

  Jack looked down at the nameplate still in his hand. "I think I can figure that one out for myself, thanks," he growled.

  "I'm sure," she said. Her own name plate, he saw, was already neatly pinned over her right shirt pocket. KAYNA, it said. "The name's Montana, right?"

  "Yes," Jack said. "Call me Jack."

  "Call me Kayna," she said pointedly. She took another look at his face, and her lip twitched. "Or Alison," she added, almost grudgingly.

  "Nice to meet you, Alison," Jack said.

  "Yeah. Right." She tapped her own name plate. "And remember: If you can read it, it's upside down."

  She smiled sweetly and moved off, her footlocker rolling along beside her. Muttering under his breath, Jack pinned his nameplate into place and followed.

  Maybe Jommy had been right. Maybe this was going to be like prison.

  Chapter 4

  Half an hour later, after a lot of jostling and confusion, the new recruits and their luggage were finally aboard the transports.

  The seats were hard and narrow, and the teens were squeezed together like slabs of packaged meat. Jammed against the two boys on either side of him, apologizing as his equipment poked into their ribs and wincing as theirs poked into his, Jack had to admit Alison had been right. He was just as glad no one aboard had live ammo.

  He tried a few times to strike up conversations, but no one nearby seemed interested in talking. Eventually he gave up the effort and spent the rest of the trip gazing moodily at the seat in front of him. With his comm clip connection to Uncle Virge buried inside his footlocker, and with too many people pressed around for him to risk talking to Draycos, he felt strangely lonely.

  It was an hour before they set down in the center of what looked like a random collection of small huts, large prefabricated buildings, and a scattering of tents of various colors and styles. The recruits were herded off their transports and ordered into one of three long barracks buildings nestled under the trees.

  Jack had hoped to get a bed near one of the handful of tall, narrow windows, with an eye toward the kind of midnight computer raid he and Draycos were probably going to have to make. But everyone else seemed to want a bunk with a view, too, and he had to settle for a lower bunk pressed up against the washroom wall. It wasn't exactly a prime location, but the washroom had some windows high up in the walls that might do.

  The recruits spent the next two hours sitting on their bunks filling out more paperwork. After that, they were taken outside into an open field and taught how to stand at attention, turn precise corners, and march in unison.


  Dinner time was a real treat. Jack had heard once that the stronger the army, the more disgusting its food. By that standard, the Whinyard's Edge was a very good army indeed. An early round of muttered complaints was quickly cut off by a large sergeant, who ordered one of the complainers to stand at attention while he verbally took him apart inch by inch. Sergeant Grisko, someone at Jack's table whispered the man's name, rumored to be the meanest of the Edge's drill instructors. After that, everyone ate in silence.

  After dinner it was back to the barracks, with orders to study their training manuals. The ten-minute warning sounded at eight-fifty, and at precisely nine o'clock the lights went out. Many of the teens were caught unprepared, and there was a lot of stumbling around and clunking into bunks and each other for the next half hour.

  Only then, after the barracks was quiet, did Jack finally have a chance to talk to Draycos.

  "So," he whispered, his head half under the blankets to muffle his voice. "This is what it's like to be a soldier, huh?"

  "Not precisely," Draycos murmured back. Even in a whisper, his voice sounded odd. "It is similar, though."

  Jack craned his neck to try to look down at the dragon's face lying against his shoulder. "You all right?"

  For a long moment Draycos was silent. "This is not right," he said. "For children so young to be sold into such a life without cause is not right."

  "You said you were younger than this when you became a soldier," Jack reminded him.

  "We were in a war for survival," Draycos said. "There is no such reasoning here."

  "I suppose not," Jack conceded. "Though I know there are sometimes big fights off on backwater worlds that the rest of us never hear about."

  The dragon shook his head. At least that was what it felt like against Jack's skin. "Cornelius Braxton would not approve of this situation."

  "Braxton?" Jack echoed, frowning. "How did Braxton get into this?"

  "I believe him to be an honorable human," Draycos said. "He would be strongly opposed to children being used for such a purpose."

  "Fine, but how did—oh, never mind," Jack said, giving up. Sometimes Draycos's mind wandered off onto the strangest bunny trails. "Just don't forget that he didn't build Braxton Universis into one of the Orion Arm's biggest megacorpora-tions by being Saint Boy Scout. The only reason he was so nice to me was because we did him a big favor. If he had to indenture kids to get something he wanted, I bet he'd do it. He might not like it, but he'd do it."

  "Perhaps," Draycos said. "Still, you and I at least should have nothing to fear from him."

  "I'm not so sure about that, either," Jack said, thinking back to the glint in Braxton's eye at their last meeting. "I wasn't exactly telling him the whole truth about what happened, you know. I get the feeling people don't tell half-truths to Cornelius Braxton and get away with it. He may not be finished with us yet." He grimaced. "I'd lay odds that Arthur Neverlin isn't finished with us, either."

  "Perhaps," Draycos said. "But I would suspect that Neverlin has all he can do right now trying to conceal himself from Braxton."

  "Don't you believe it," Jack warned. "Snakes like Neverlin can always find time for a little revenge when someone's double crossed him. Especially when they've double-crossed him as badly as we did."

  "A double cross implies there was a legitimate agreement to begin with," Draycos pointed out. "You were blackmailed into assisting him."

  "You think that's going to matter to Neverlin?"

  "I suppose not," Draycos conceded, his voice thoughtful.

  Again, Jack tried to get a look at the dragon's face. "So where exactly are you going with this line of conversation?" he asked. "You suggesting we ask Braxton for help?"

  "Certainly not," Draycos said firmly, his mind apparently finished with wherever it had been wandering. "You know we cannot afford to let anyone know there was a survivor of the Valahgua attack. I have simply been thinking about Braxton today."

  "And I'm sure he appreciates it," Jack said. "Can we forget him now and concentrate on the problem at hand?"

  "Yes, of course," Draycos said. "What do you wish me to do?"

  "First of all, you eat," Jack said, reaching under his bunk to the napkin-wrapped slices of meat he'd managed to smuggle out of the mess hall. "There isn't much here, I'm afraid. I'll try to do better tomorrow."

  "I am grateful." Draycos's head rose from Jack's chest, pushing up the blankets.

  One by one, Jack fed the meat slices into his open mouth, maneuvering carefully between the sharp teeth. It felt rather like feeding a pet dog, he thought.

  He quickly and firmly put the warm-fuzzy image away. Draycos had already made it clear he wasn't anyone's pet. "I can hunt if necessary, as well," the dragon said, still chewing as his head sank flat against Jack's chest again. "What is next?"

  "The main computer system is probably in the headquarters," Jack said. "It's a big, three-story gray building through the trees facing the landing area. It had a flag flying in front of it earlier."

  "I saw it."

  "Good," Jack said. He was never quite sure how much Draycos could see riding his skin that way. "There may be a way to tap into their records from somewhere else, but I'm guessing the HQ is our best bet. And since they probably aren't going to let us just walk in and sift through their files during the day, it's going to have to be at night."

  "There will be guard patrols," Draycos pointed out. "As well as alarms."

  "Right," Jack agreed. "Nothing we can do about the alarms until we can get a close look at them. But we should at least be able to figure out the patrols."

  "Yes," Draycos said. The blankets swelled upward again as the dragon raised his head from Jack's shoulder and poked his snout into the open air. "These windows do not face the proper direction."

  "There are some in the washroom that do," Jack said. "High up on the walls. You should be able to see the HQ and most of the area around it from there."

  "Good." Draycos rose higher off Jack's skin and stretched his neck, the movement shaking his head completely out of concealment. "Hold your breath."

  Frowning, Jack took a deep breath and held it. For perhaps twenty seconds the dragon sat there like a statue, his golden scales seeming to glow in the pale light. Every few seconds his ears would twitch; and then, abruptly, he nodded. "They are all asleep," he said, dropping lightly onto the floor beside Jack's cot. "I will need your watch."

  Jack handed it over. "They said reveille would be at four-thirty," he warned the dragon. "Don't pull a Cinderella on me."

  "Pardon?"

  "Skip it," Jack said, resettling the blankets over his shoulders and rolling onto his side. It had been a long day, and he suddenly realized he was very tired indeed. "Just don't be late. And try not to wake me up when you get home."

  Chapter 5

  Reveille came precisely at four-thirty, a raucous trumpet blare that sent bunks jerking all through the barracks. Thirty seconds later, Sergeant Grisko himself came striding through the door, bellowing for all the greasy maggot-infested sacks of lard to get their hind ends out of bed and stand at attention.

  "Sloppy, maggots," he growled when the teens were standing stiffly at the ends of their bunks. "What do you think this is, summer camp? Well, it's not. Who do you think I am, your mother? Well, I'm not."

  He stomped slowly down the room between the lines, looking each recruit up and down as he went, describing in vivid detail exactly what he thought of them, their parents, their expectations, and their chances of becoming successful soldiers. It was highly intimidating, as it was no doubt meant to be.

  At the same time, Jack couldn't help but admire the range of the man's vocabulary. He'd spent a fair amount of time over the years in the company of Uncle Virgil's associates, and he'd always assumed their language was as vile as it got.

  Grisko's loud defense of the cooking staff the previous evening had already put him in the same high-level cursing league as those men. Only now did Jack realize how restrained the sergeant's me
ss hall tirade had actually been.

  And this was just the first early-morning wakeup. He wondered how much the man still had in reserve.

  He reached Jack ... and suddenly stopped cold. "What in the name of Cutter's Hind End are you supposed to be?" he demanded, looking Jack up and down. "Sir?" Jack asked between stiff lips. "Is this some kind of joke?" Grisko bit out, waving a hand at him.

  Jack looked down at Draycos, back in his proper place wrapped around his body. "It's a tattoo, sir."

  "It's a tattoo, sir," Grisko mimicked. "Get rid of it." Jack blinked. "Sir?"

  "I said get rid of it," Grisko snapped. "Wash it off, sandblast it off—whatever it takes."

  "But it's a tattoo," Jack protested. "It doesn't come off." Grisko had been starting to turn back toward the door. Instead, he turned back to Jack, gazing down his nose directly into Jack's face. "Are you arguing with me, Montana?" he asked, his voice suddenly very quiet. "Are you disobeying a direct order?"

  "No, sir," Jack said, thinking fast. "Request permission to return home to visit a removal clinic."

  The corner of Grisko's mouth twitched into something that was probably as close to a smile as he ever got. "That's better," he said. "When I give you an order, you jump to obey it. Clear?"

  "Yes, sir," Jack said.

  "Good," Grisko said. "Permission denied. You don't skip out on basic for anything. You'll get it removed during first liberty."

  He made a precise about-face, just like the ones Jack and the others had practiced the previous afternoon, except that Grisko got it right. "All right, maggots," he announced, starting back down the line. "You've got five minutes to suit up in fatigues and report to the mess hall. Thirty minutes from right now, you will have eaten and assembled on the Number Three parade ground. Now move!"

  They spent the morning practicing more drills and formations. By the time the lunch trumpet sounded some of them were nearly as good at turns and about-faces as Grisko.

  Not that Grisko would ever admit that, of course. To hear him talk and complain, they would never be anything more than undisciplined, incompetent maggots.